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I try tugging my hand away, but he's got a tight grip on me. It's starting to hurt, and I feel my hand going numb. He's shaking, and another weird sound comes out of his throat.
"I said let go," I tell him a little louder this time before pushing him away.
He falls out of his chair and starts convulsing on the ground, making gasping noises. I sit there, shocked at the scene before me. Everything seems to happen in slow motion, but it happens fast as Victor pushes me out of the way and starts administering aid.
The room erupts into chaos around me. Shrieks of panic echo against the gilded walls, piercing the once harmonious atmosphere. A sea of party-goers scramble in every direction, their faces masks of fear and confusion. The finely dressed servers are lost in the chaos, leaving trays of untouched food abandoned on their tables. Jackson's mother and sister are at his side almost instantly, their faces draining of color.
I hear his mother's high-pitched cries slicing through the air as her hands flutter helplessly over his convulsing body. Her tears leave streaks of mascara down her face, and despite the terror of the situation, I find myself momentarily hypnotized by the black streams that distort her carefully applied makeup.
Jackson's sister clings onto their mother as her own sobs blend into the chaos. Damien, who until now had been the epitome of charismatic charm, morphs into a commanding presence at the head of the room. His face is etched with determination and anger. He bellows out orders, his words a clear beacon through the chaos.
"There! Clear a path!" he roars, pointing to a group of men in black suits who I hadn't noticed before. Their presence is intimidating. They spring into action, forming a wall against the onlookers and creating a clear path towards Jackson.
Despite the terror that grips the room, I find myself rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend the nightmarish scene unfolding before me. I clench and unclench my hands, the sensation grounding me during the pandemonium. The room spins around me, yet in the chaos, I feel a strange calmness seep into my bones. One second at a time, I tell myself, one second at a time.
I watch in stunned silence as an older man walks in with a bag, kneels, and begins to appraise Jackson's condition. His hands move with a mechanical precision that suggests he's done this multiple times before. My heart skips a beat as he pulls out a white sheet from his bag, a body bag.
"Move back!" commands another man, his voice barely cutting through the chaos. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, creating a path for the men carrying Jackson’s lifeless body. The sight of his still body in the body bag is a horrifying sight that sears itself into my mind.
Victor steps back from the scene with his face twisted in anger. He walks over to Damien, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"He's gone, Damien," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "Jackson is dead."
8
CHAPTER 8
Isabella
I stand among his family dressed in a black dress and veil. It's been a week since Jackson died, and I've felt nothing but relief since. While I do feel sorrow for his family, I'm glad to be free of him. He made my life a living hell and got what he deserved. As I stand here, the past week rolls over me in waves of memories. From the moment of Jackson's death, everything became a blur comprised of a series of funereal rituals and preparations.
Every day was filled with decisions and choices. The selection of a suitable casket, the most poetic epitaph for his tombstone, and the extravagant floral arrangements that would blanket his final resting place. Each decision was overwhelming, a surreal reminder of the permanence of Jackson's absence. I remember visiting the funeral home and choosing the charcoal grey and mahogany casket, the one that seemed to match the Blackhart’s wealthy persona.
The funeral director, an older gentleman with sympathetic eyes, led us through the process with a somber grace. He showed us an array of burial clothing, and we chose a suit, black as midnight, the one that resembles the one Jackson wore all the time. His mother clung to it with her tears soaking the fabric.
There were endless discussions about the order of service. Deciding who would deliver the eulogy was a battle in and of itself. Victor offered for me to do it, saying it would be the final gift to Jackson as his widow. Before I could refuse, Donna suggested that each of us say something, and that was the end of the conversation. The discussions, the choices, the planning, it was all a haze of grief and disbelief.
I recall the visit to the cemetery where we chose a spot under an ancient oak tree, a place befitting the Blackhart legacy. Every detail was scrutinized, and every decision weighed heavy on their hearts as we prepared to say our final goodbyes to Jackson. It was a week of suspended reality, a week where I navigated through putting on the façade of a grieving widow as if I cared that he died.
The priest’s voice brings me back to the present. His voice echoes solemnly in the silence of the church, his words a soft balm against the harsh reality of the loss.
"We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Jackson Blackhart,” he begins, his voice steady and comforting. As he talks about Jackson's life, his accomplishments, and his dreams, tears begin to flow freely from everyone’s eyes. Everyone except for me, but I make sure to look as sad as I possibly can. The cries of Donna and Aurora fill the air, their grief piercing the solemn silence like a knife.
Meanwhile, Damien stands there like a statue in his expensive black suit, looking as stoic as always. His face is unreadable, a mask hiding whatever turmoil he might be feeling. His eyes, however, hold a visible anger. The priest finishes his speech, and Damien steps forward. He steps up to the podium and clears his throat. His gaze sweeps over the crowd, a sea of somber faces, before landing on me.
"My brother was a man of strong convictions," he starts, his voice firm. "He lived by his own rules, and his fierce determination often got him into trouble. Trouble I’d usually have to bail him out of."
He pauses, gripping the sides of the podium tightly. His knuckles turn white under the strain. "Many of you knew Jackson as the charming, charismatic individual he was. He had a way of gaining attention when he walked into a room."
I try not to snort at the shit Damien is saying. Jackson was an asshole who treated people like shit. Everyone here knows it, so there’s no use in feeding them shit and convincing them it’s good for them. Damien pauses as he gets lost in thought, and I can see his features soften a little. But as quickly as it comes, it's gone, replaced by a cold, hard edge.
"Jackson wasn't just my brother," Damien continues, his gaze hardening. "He was a Blackhart, a force to be reckoned with. While we mourn his loss today, we must also remember who we are. We do not forgive, and we do not forget.”
His words hang heavy in the silent church, vibrating with a promise of retribution. The stoicism he had showed cracks, revealing a flicker of the fury burning beneath. It's a side of Damien I don’t want to see, a side that sends a chill down my spine. Just as quickly as it appears, it's gone, replaced by the composed, stoic demeanor everyone knows.
"My brother may be gone," he concludes. "But his spirit, his fight, lives on through us. We owe it to him to ensure his legacy is not forgotten. To ensure the world knows who he truly was. To ensure that those responsible for his untimely death face the consequences of their actions."
As he steps down from the podium, the church bursts into applause, a thunderous sound that drowns the eerie silence. I watch him as his tall figure retreats to his seat with a strange mixture of admiration and fear bubbling within me. His eulogy wasn't just a farewell to his brother. It was a declaration of war.
